Chapter One
Lila
Freedom tasted like possibility and expensive coffee as I merged onto the 405, leaving Orange County in my rearview mirror. My Honda Civic might not be flashy, but it had carried me through countless shifts at Sunset Vines and would deliver me to my destiny at Sparkling Oak Winery in Oakcrest Bay.
"Time to show them what Lila King can do," I said to my reflection in the rearview mirror, then laughed at myself. Talking to mirrors was probably not the mark of a sophisticated wine sales professional, but hey—a girl had to celebrate her victories somewhere.
My phone buzzed with a text from Bowie:"Go kill it, sis. But not literally. HR frowns on that."
I grinned and typed back at the next red light:"No promises. If someone doesn't appreciate my charm, they might get a corkscrew to the eye."
His response was immediate:"That's my girl. Love you."
My big brother. Two years older and perpetually convinced I needed protection, even though I'd been handling myself just fine since we aged out of foster care. Now he owned the most successful wine bar in Orange County, and I was about to prove that King family ambition ran in both directions.
The morning sun painted the California landscape in shades of gold as I left LA's smog behind. My carefully planned itinerary was clipped to the visor—every stop timed, every mile calculated. Some people might call it obsessive. I called it winning.
This position at Sparkling Oak wasn't just a job; it was my shot at building something that belonged entirely to me. I'd studied their entire catalog, memorized the tasting notes for their award-winning Cabernet, and could recite their distribution network in my sleep. Madeline Foster, the general manager, had a reputation for eating weak candidates for breakfast. Good thing I wasn't weak.
My Honda gave a concerning hiccup.
I frowned and pressed the gas harder. The car responded, so I shrugged it off. I'd had it serviced last week, and everything had checked out fine.
Another hiccup, followed by an ominous shudder.
"Don't you dare, Penelope," I warned the dashboard. "I have a very important meeting tomorrow, and you are not going to—"
The engine made a grinding noise that sounded like metal eating metal, then started losing power despite my foot pressed firmly on the accelerator.
"Son of a bitch." I managed to coast off the next exit into what looked like the set of a post-apocalyptic movie. Desert stretched endlessly in every direction, broken only by Joshua trees and the occasional rusted car part that had clearly given up hope.
My Honda wheezed to a stop in a dramatic cloud of steam.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the steam rising from under my hood like incense from hell. This was not happening. Not today. Not when I had spent three months planning every detail of this transition.
I grabbed my phone to call AAA, but the screen mocked me with zero bars. Of course. Because the universe clearly had a sense of humor.
The heat was already building in the car, so I got out and popped the hood, though my automotive knowledge extended roughly to "gas goes in the tank." Steam billowed out like I'd opened a portal to the underworld.
A pickup truck appeared on the horizon, and I felt a surge of relief. See? Problem solved. I'd get help, get back on the road, and still make my timeline.
The truck pulled over and out stepped... dear God.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of rugged good looks that belonged on a calendar titled "Men Who Could Probably Build You a House with Their Bare Hands." Chestnut hair slightly messed by the wind, a beard that suggested he had better things to do than worry about grooming standards, and dark eyes that took in the situation with calm assessment. He wore faded jeans that hugged his thighs in ways that should probablybe illegal, work boots, and a t-shirt that stretched across a chest that clearly saw regular gym time.
He approached with the confident stride of a man who'd never met a problem he couldn't solve, and something deep in my belly gave an entirely inappropriate flutter.
"Car trouble?" he asked, his voice carrying a slight rasp that sent heat curling through me.
"Just a minor mechanical disagreement," I replied, gesturing airily at the steam. "I'm sure it's nothing a little negotiation can't fix."
One dark eyebrow rose. "Negotiation?"
"I'm very persuasive."
"I can see that." His mouth quirked in what might have been amusement. "Mind if I take a look? I speak fluent engine."
I stepped aside, trying not to notice how his jeans pulled tight across his ass as he bent over the engine. Focus, Lila. Broken car. Important job. Not the way this stranger's forearms flexed as he examined... whatever the hell was under there.
